AU. AR. OroTsu. And in an instant she sees them—snippets of the lives they have lived, of the lives they will, and she breakbreakbreaks at the sight of metaphor apples, and too—weak pillars, and arms and legs entangled like mangled art.

notes: Woot.
OroTsu is my not-so-secret crack. Also, considering I LOL'd
ridiculously over Ren's parody-collection, I'm not sure whether I
should be labeling myself a hypocrite right now. But, anyway…

This was supposed to be
part of sixpence, but it got monstrous, and so, I posted it
on its own.

(HAY GUYS I'M CAPTAIN
OBVIOUS.)

Also, this is AU. Or
AR. One of them. Or maybe both. Yeah, both. I cannot stress
this enough. Totally AU or AR in Naruto-canon verse.
Or really, in ANY canon-verse. Read warning for more.

warning: I
really don't know how to put it here without giving it away. Just
know that I take liberties with (read: amalgamate) various
mythologies-slash-religions, and, so if that offends you, um…click
out?

Also, I'm
deliberately vague.

disclaimer: totally not mine. none of it.

-

"I
think," he says, breath catching on the edge of Sleep,

"I think
I knew you once."

-

And once, in a time
before Memory—in a time before Time—he stood alone.

(because yes, he is
the first, and paves the way for after)

Under the cover of
darkness

(he has yet to call
it night

he falls fast, and
wakes up to the sound of her slow, even breaths.

There is something
missing, and instinctively, his hand rises slowly to rest at his
side.

(thief, he
says, thief—

something dark and
primitive damns her silently, and he would call it hate if
he'd known the word)

The movement startles
her, this woman with hair the color of sunlight and eyes a shade
lighter than those he'd christened trees and—

"Woman," he says,
and writes her into being.

(his breath is a
stylus for creation)

And when she sinks her
teeth into rosy seeded womb, he smiles under anger, and plots.

-

You
will love him.

I know not
the word.

You
will know.

My
penance?

In
every lifetime you live.

We shall
see.

-

She is Beauty-primeval,
and there is something feral in her eyes.

There is passion there,
for excess, for hedonism—

("Again,"
she says, throaty and undone, and he quakes under the pressure of his
own body's demands,

"Mine," he says,
palming her breast, brushing his lips over the nape of her neck,
"mine."

She smiles, wicked
and free, and her white teeth catch what moonlight there is.

"Claim me."

And howhowhow, he
wonders, how?

"The gods will
tell."

So he does, and
silly boy, will you never learn?)

It is not enough.

He is the product of
thieves and lovers, with his silver-cool tongue, quick-clever white
hands and—

(the worst of both,
the best of neither, four hands, two mouths, and she binds him to her
with whispered words, and they are together in every way that does
not matter—)

Their union is an
abomination.

-

It does
not hurt.

You
have lived but twice

It will
not hurt.

-

"Traitorous whore."

His voice is slurred,
crude and unfinished, and she stands tall in the dank cell of his
imprisonment. He is restrained by the most tenuous of bonds,

(a mockery of his
worth)

and his barely
concealed rage rattles more than her ragged breath. She holds his
legacy in her hands, shorn black strands that slip silently down to
the gilded floor.

"Ask me if I regret
it."

He stares at
her—through her—with unseeing eyes, and laughs insane.

She walks away, the
weight of her betrayal tinkling in the fabric of voluminous white
robes.

(his soul for
silver—a fair trade)

When he dies, she finds
the strands of black among the rubble, and does not feel a thing.

-

They
call you a tragedy.

And what
do they know?

You
mock him. In every form you take.

And yet,
he does nothing.

He
will.

He will
try.

-

The next
time, she almost remembers.

She is different here.

Stronger.

Blonde hair,
amber-eyed, fractured and whole.

Stronger.

Her body has its own
geography, with its upward slopes, soft valleys, bronzed arches and
miles and miles of

(memory)

peach pale skin.

She is a universe in
her own right, and she is unashamed.

-

He is different here.

Crueler.

There is something
familiar in the dark hair, the light eyes, skin whiter than
just-fallen snow. He walks with unhurried, graceful steps, and there
is a cool strength, an underestimated insanity lying just beyond
sight.

"Tsunade-hime's. I
understand. And really, that condition makes this mission no
different from any other we have had."

From the bed, his
almost-rival, pseudo-brother,

(never friend, never
no)

teammate responds with
a growl.

"Fuck you, bastard!"

"Really, your taunts
get more and more predictable each day."

"You want to talk
predictable? I'll show you…"

And she drowns out the
voices that sound in her head with a cacophony of almost-memories
that play without sound.

-

Later, when they are
alone,

"Orochimaru's…changed,
hime. There's something different about him that I can't put my
finger on. "

"I know."

He looks at her, black
eyes narrowed in warning.

"You'd better be
careful."

(And in an instant
she sees them—snippets of the lives they have lived, of the lives
they will, and she breakbreakbreaks at the sight of metaphor apples,
and too-weak pillars, and arms and legs entangled like mangled art,
her deadened eyes, his narrow, thin lips, the subtle sophistication
of his precise brand of cruelty bred into him by years, and eons and
ages of endless, unconscious practice and—)

She swallows, and knows
her sleep will be fitful this night.

"I will be."

-

The mission ends with
accolades, and no one is surprised. She walkswobbles home, unsteady
steps sound hollow against the deadened ground.

He stays for a moment,
alone, and unwraps the bandages she'd wrapped around with such
care.

There is a clean cut
that stretches across the expanse of his pale chest—deep, and
almost fatal. Taunting in its failure.

(how much deeper,
how much harder,

snip snip snip says
the thread of his Fate,

snip snip, snag on
the wheels of Providence, and so he lives,)

He feels his weakness
coursing through his veins and plots.

-

"I can give that to
you."

Jiraiya sleeps,
oblivious to the tension around the makeshift camp. Orochimaru has
taken first watch, and Tsunade organizes her medical supplies with a
careful precision that borders on obsession. That silk-and-steel
voice is taunting her again, and his ocher eyes shine bright in fire
light. There is a flutter in the pit of her stomach, a not-quite
fear that makes itself at home in the back of her mind.

This is madness.

"You-you don't know
what you're saying."

Orochimaru twirls the
kunai he's fished out of his pouch with nonchalance, and uses it to
peel an apple with smooth, slick strokes.

"And you don't like
what you're hearing."

"Crazy. You've
finally outdone your own brand of insanity," she says, seeking to
bolster her own courage by downgrading his reason. Had it been
anyone but him, she wouldn't be so unnerved. She is strong by
anyone's standards—strong and swift and sure.

But he is Orochimaru,
and she is Tsunade, and this is enough. There are an infinite
lifetimes' worth of memories driving them, too many old-hurts that
they do not rememeber, too many parallel lives that

(have never)

will never intersect.

"You would castigate
me for wanting to stop time?"

"I—just…"

He smirks, almost
wicked, at her hesitation.

"I know about the
dreams."

"What…what
dreams?"

"You call for me.
I've heard my name pass your lips too many times for it to be
coincidence."

He steps toward her,
all lithe fluid motions and unbound hair, apple juice on the corner
of his mouth, and she starts at the feel of his fingertips dancing on
the underside of her chin. His breath whispers against her lips, and
she sighs, unsteady.

"You see me as I
was."

"Wha-what?"

He leaned in, until
they were sharing breaths, and kisses her with lazy indulgence. He
tastes like apples, and bitterness, and sudden damnation, and she
thinks, vaguely, that this cannot be their first.

Her eyes snap open, and
she pushes him away, flustered.

"I don't know what
you're talking about."

There is silence for a
few moments, while she struggles for composure.

"You can help me."

"You…"

"You can help me, or
you can not. Either way, I will find it. Here or elsewhere."

"That sounds a lot
like treason."

He smiles, wicked and
slow.

"Whatever it takes."

She turns away at that,
and fights against her sudden urge to vomit. Orochimaru, for his
part, goes back to his solitary watch as though they had not even
spoken. There is no more talk of ichor and gods' breath, and for
that, at least, she is grateful.

When he leaves four
weeks later, she is the only one who is not surprised.

-

"We'll find him,
right?"

"We have to."

"And we'll bring
him back?"

"We will."

"Dead?"

She slips on her
fingerless gloves, and for a moment, does not speak.

"…Whatever it
takes."

-

Their end is a foregone
conclusion.

The fight is fierce,
and bloody, and long. There are brown streaks of dried blood on the
sides of her face, a sickening parody of heartfelt tears, and
Jiraiya's hair is all but stained red. He lies, sweat-slick and
barely breathing, after exhausting the last of his energy to send for
reinforcements from Konoha.

On the other side,
Orochimaru is tired, but still standing. There is an ever-present
glimmer of white on his face, and she knows he is smiling. Queer,
she thinks, but then, hasn't he always been?

She rises up, unsteady
on aching legs, and charges for one last punch. She will die for
this, she knows—

(but, she
thinksrecalsremembers he has done the same for her, in lifetimes long
past, forgotten by everything except their own shared Memory)

He does not move when
her fist shatters his guard, emits nothing more than a strained grunt
when he falters, and finally falls fast.

She stands over him,
but not victorious.

"Ask me if I regret
it," she says, and the words echo from a different time.

He dies quiet.

-

You are
legend.

We are
damned.

-

FIN.

I don't know.
Really. I don't. Please tell me what you thought?

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